


Traditions

by PennySerenade



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17387696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennySerenade/pseuds/PennySerenade
Summary: Héctor impresses the family with his Imelda knowledge.





	Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> Well, when I finally watched Coco, like a month ago, I didn’t expect it to take over my life. Now please enjoy some mundane, skeletal domesticity.

Time is a constant change. In the Land of the Living, in the Land of the Dead. Wise and wrinkled grandparents roll their eyes at kid’s taste in music, or how skirts are getting too high. Elena Rivera used to scoff loudly whenever she saw sneakers, like on the young visitors in Santa Cecilia. “Ugly and artificial!” she scolded Miguel, when he looked at them too long.

But time always caught up to the living. It was a system that never failed. 

There’s an everlasting supply of new generations being set aflame; burning brightly. All the while, older generations melted down to a waxy candle stub; at least to be remembered lovingly on a family ofrenda.

This wasn’t quite the case in the Land of the Dead.

The old remained for a long time, if remembered well. But their ways, their precious ways, seemed forgotten amongst the shiny new bones entering the gates. Although traditions, such as Dios De Muertos and holidays and familia, would never be forgotten –- it was much too imbedded in their DNA –- the ways of the young seem to creep into every corner of the land.                                                

 _Since when was encouraging people to attend parades and fiestas on the Sabbath una bueno idea?_ Mama Imelda shook her head. 

How could her family even askto go out tomorrow? When every Sunday, they rest and eat a big dinner at home after the long and busy week? In life and death, this was always so! Not just because some stern priest wagged a warning finger throughout her childhood on such matters, but because this is what familias do! 

The villainous mastermind must be hidden in unholy things like that _devil box!_ Strange and unsightly, with an untrustworthy screen, akin to any palm reader’s hand.

And... perhaps she’s become too lenient on family rules…

Imelda looks out the window, where Héctor was raking the garden. That man has a sixth sense, or an uncanny knack of reading her mind, because he looks up at the same time and gives a goofy wave in her direction.

She rolls her eyes. Héctor was difficult to place in all of this. He  _was_ timeless. Young and old all at once. Eyes that have seen too much, but a heart innocent as a child. He died too young. But he seemed relatively unbothered by the new inventions and ideas circulating through their world – " _Eh, what can you do!”_ Yet _,_  he also sought out comfort from their previously shared era; wooden chairs creaky and slow. He did say that he loved her silver streak of hair... 

Now that music flowed through their lives once more, her family seemed much looser. It was both good and bad. They sang and danced and Hector played his guitar. Even Coco got Elena on her feet more than once, these past few days. 

But now it comes to this? Her family wishes to parade through the streets because some young, new political official suddenly decided the people needed to celebrate their  _elección_.

_Absurdo!_

“But Mamá…” Coco coaxed. “It’s our Elena’s first week here, why don’t we show her a good time!” 

“So, a good time can’t be spent at home?”

“What if we just go out for the fireworks?” Rosita exclaimed, wringing her hands excitedly. "Or the drummers?" 

“No! _Tradición_  is _tradición_.” 

Imelda stomped the broom in her hands. 

“If Abuelita says no, then we don’t go,” Elena says, with a final tone. She always obeyed her every word.

But Imelda’s heart twinges a bit. She doesn’t love being the bad guy. She didn’t love hearing an adolescent Coco beg for a record player to no avail, she didn’t love ignoring her favorite song, La Llorona, whenever passing street singers, she didn’t love telling Miguel – “ _You go home my way, or no way.”_  

She protected the family as best she could. She always would. She can’t just change her mind on everything.

Héctor looks up from the window again, smiling.

* * *

“There’s nothing left to be done,” Victoria says, with a vacant expression. “It is what it is.”

“But I’d like to take Elena out…” Julio sags his shoulders. Wasn’t he her father? Couldn’t he have one word?

“Papá, we can’t just turn our backs on _Abuelita_. This is important to her!” 

“Tío Oscar... Tío Felipe...” Coco nudges one of her uncles, obviously standing next to one another.

The twins look where she’s pointing; Héctor striding through the door.

The two brothers give each other a knowing look. In a previous life, they’d run to Héctor for many issues regarding Imelda. If she was angry about a silly thing, like how they’d used her good dress to tie a canopy for their fort; they needed more blankets and couldn’t use their Mama's --  _duh_. He had a way of understanding her, like one of those horse whisperers who talk to well... horses... of course. Not that they’d call Imelda a horse, she was more of a running bull.

“ _Hola familia_!” 

Hector rushes into the kitchen, where they were huddled. Then he notices their faces.

“What? Did someone die?” he jests.

“Héctor, we need you to – 

“Find a way to get Imelda, that bullheaded girl –

“To let us attend the parade –

“Tomorrow,” Felipe finishes. 

“ _Por que_?” Hector questions. “Can’t you ask her yourselves?” 

“Obviously we did Papa Héctor, no dice.” Victoria looks back at her nails.

“We should just drop the matter before she comes back...” Elena whispers, slightly unnerved by the presence of Héctor. They can’t disobey Mama Imelda, and then seek out _his_ assistance in swaying her rule –- that’s just a cocktail way too strong. Elena can’t help but recall all the warnings concerning him from a previous lifetime. Of course, now she knows the truth about the poison and lies, but still… he couldn’t change Mamá Imelda’s mind.

“She’ll listen to you,” attests Coco. 

Elena makes a light disbelieving sound. That can’t be true? Out of all of them?  

“That so, little one? Your Madre doesn’t need me to change her mind.” Hector begins to wave off the plan. What’s a parade matter when they’ll have a dinner table waiting! He’ll never get enough of this –- sitting down with the large family and talking about the day. It almost breaks his heart, if he still had one.

“Por favor Papá,” Coco begs, sounding young and chirpy. “Can’t we try?” 

And he’s soft clay in her hands, just like the first time he held her as a baby.

“Ay okay… I do, of course, have an idea...”

* * *

An hour later, Héctor was strolling into the kitchen again, but this time Imelda was preparing a pot at the stove. 

“Looks good.” He eyes the tortilla soup.

“Yes, a light dinner tonight so we can fill our ‘bellies’ tomorrow.” Imelda hums happily. 

“How good it is to have Elena for her first Sunday Dinner!” He grins, and then falters, knowing Elena has been touchy around him. “I mean... of course it isn’t your first... you’ve probably had more than me! I meant your first… dead… Sunday dinner heh heh.”

Elena quirks an eyebrow at his stuttering. This is the man who is going to get Imelda Rivera to go back on her word?

Then, Héctor looks expectantly towards Felipe and Oscar, sitting at the kitchen table with the rest.

“Oh! Uh, but it is still a shame –

“That we can’t attend the parade – 

“I’ve heard stories all week –

“Of its magnitude!

Imelda sighs. This again? She won’t hear anymore. “Hold your tongues in my kitchen. I don’t want to hear it anymore. We do not break _tradicion_.”

“Parade? The one for the state governor?” Héctor probes.

“Sí... I don’t suppose you want to go, too?” asks Imelda, smirking up at him. He could be a wildcard, but she knew his answer already.

“A parade? Peh! I’ve seen plenty. Nothing is like sitting with you.”

Though he might be playing silly family games, no words felt as true coming from his mouth.

“Wait...Papá Héctor…” Julio begins, perplexedly, before being shushed by Coco.

Imelda feels a phantom blush, like the ghostly pangs of hunger, spread over her face. She’s fully re-acclimated to her husband and his syrupy compliments, but still… even years into their marriage-bed as living beings, she’d redden whenever looking over her shoulder and found him staring longingly at her.

Héctor leans against the cabinet, near the stove. Still tall besides her. He always found this an endearing feature about his wife -– how such a small person could emit so much intensity.

“Besides we need a north star, someone to keep us from falling astray!” he nonchalantly continues.

“ _Correcto_ ,” she hums.

“It makes me think how proud Mamá Estella would be right now.”

Héctor starts with a little laugh, as if remembering something fondly, but then turns a solemn face towards his wife, showing his serious side. “Very proud, _mi amor_.”

“Mi Mamá?” Imelda asks, in shrill shock. 

“Si! Her Mamá – ” he turns to the crowd. “Could be just this way. Always traditional. Never let her go to the Festival de Musica, just outside of Saint Cecilia. Many of us silly _young_ folk would go whenever the wagons came, they traveled all over you see.”

Imelda stops stirring the soup.

She still remembers, with fresh bitterness, hearing her amigas laughing about the colored beads they’d scooped from the ground. They were only made of granite, but they’d trade them during class when Sister Maria wasn’t looking.

And then years later -– that lanky boy she kept an eye on since no else seemed to notice, getting even clumsier with a guitar in hand, was definitely going to the festival. How could he not, when he sang in La Plaza every day? He strummed his instrument with a crooked smile. Surely, she was old enough to attend this year, but no Mama said –

“You’ll get carted off into the desert,” says Héctor. “Right? That’s what I remember she said, whenever I asked if I could take a walk with you.”

“Hm, I remember. Can’t say she’d be much proud of me _after_ my seventeenth birthday,” Imelda whispers, glaring up at him, and picking up the spoon.

As if he was only to blame for all the mortal sins they committed during courtship. 

“Ehh... well, we were just kids after all.” He grins sheepishly. Imelda’s newfound responsibilities, of tending to the market and sewing shop, did seem like the greatest thing to happen since he got his guitar re-strung. 

“Besides one cannot expect an orphan boy to behave.” He turns to the table joyfully. “It was always Imelda who made all the adults proud,  _muy orgulloso_.”

He fondly nods his head at his family, in her honor, but gives them a knowing wink.  

“Pah! As if any of that matters now.” But she stirs the soup slower.

“No need to be humble. If only she could see you now. Even your Papá would say you’re the _splitting_ image, eh?” 

Héctor gave her shoulder a sentimental squeeze, as if it was something to revel in -– her likeness to her Mamá! The woman who dumped a bucket of water on her, as she lay asleep, after discovering her daughter secretly began seeing that loco músico --  _no family prospects, Imelda!_ _¡Niña tonta!_

Did she dump a bucket of water on Coco when she dragged Julio to their doorstep, with no trade in hand? No! Instead, she taught the boy herself. No, no, no, she was not her Mamá! Héctor knew she didn’t want to keep that parenting style when she grew up!

“Alright then, I got a song to finish!” He kisses her cheek and then grabs his guitar.

He was about halfway into the hallway, when a shoe hit his back. “Oy!”

“Take it back right now!” Imelda stands in the center.

Héctor rubs his back. “That has a heel, you know!”

“When did I ever ask to be compared to mi Madre!”

“ _Mi amor,_  I only meant it as a compliment.”

“Ha, some compliment! She didn’t like you, remember? You really want me to be like her and not like you either, hm?”

“Oh, there’s the threat.” Héctor shakes his hands. “Maybe you’ll like me tomorrow at dinner.” 

“You should be so lucky.”

Imelda swerves on her remaining heel and stomps back into the kitchen, gliding past her slack-jawed family. 

She stares at the stove for a long moment.

“Coco, would you please get the pork and corn from the fridge? I’ll start the carnitas.”

“Mamá?” she questions, and Imelda can hear the hopeful note in her voice.

“Sí, we’ll have the Sabbath dinner tonight.”  

“We better hurry!” Julio and Rosita jump up and begin unloading dishes and pots. Oscar and Felipe smile at each other -– it’s just like when they were young. _Hector e Imelda_.

“I’ll make tamales,” Elena offers, still stunned that moving dinner was even a possibility. Who is this strange man? She wants to know more.

“ _Gracias_ _cariño_.” Imelda smiles warmly at her kindred-spirited granddaughter.

“Do we have any beef, or chorizo maybe?” 

Everyone stops.

“Oh… did we forget to say? We do not eat chorizo anymore,” explained Imelda. 

“No?”  

“No,” Victoria deadpanned.

“I’ll explain later mija, come let’s use the pork instead.”

Elena blankly nods.

 

Where did thattradition come from?

**Author's Note:**

> I just want Hector to impress everyone. Lemme know if I butchered any facts :D 
> 
> Also, kinda feel bad for writing off Imelda's mom and previous family, but to me that could be a reason they weren't around in the movie. They were probably forgotten or distant or something, and thought this could maybe be the reason why.


End file.
